The Moron, Genius and petite bleu tente
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: What happens when John and Sherlock have to share a tent in the countryside for a case. Hints of Johnlock, but nothing too serious. Enjoy, and please Rate and Review!


I do love camping. Don't get me wrong- it reminds me of Afghanistan. A lot.

However, even though it was a war zone, we abandoned our guns and uniform on those special times that there was no threats. My boys and I liked nothing better than to lie on our backs and watch the swirling mass of black and blue, dotted all over with little stars and the moon hung, mystic and silvery, in the sky. The best thing about it? It was always changing in between- we could get months in between these 'No threat' times, and, when we did, we would once lay on our backs to see that the sky had changed again, if only slightly.

We wondered if our family, our friends and lovers would be looking up at the sky, thinking of us- just like we were at this very moment in time.

Oh, how I adored camping!

However, it does put a damper on it if you are stuck, in a tiny tent with a 6'3 sociopath who has no meaning in his database on 'personal space'

* * *

We had had a case, the one I had so artfully named _The Moron, Genius and the petite bleu tente._ Don't ask me where the French came from, it was just a thing that popped into my head as I wrote. I must write as I think, so to speak, so it stayed there (check it out on the blog, if you want: it's the third post down).

Anyway, I had dozed off about nine-ish, with Sherlock by my side. No one notices how warm the detective is, even though his appearance convinces others otherwise. He was praying to whatever Gods rested on the patch of blue canvas above our heads; I was sure he would do the same at home, so why should being in somewhere smaller make a difference?

It had started to rain, and I must admit, I am a sucker for pounding water off of canvas. I was virtually asleep in no time. I was drifting, no nightmares, but treading the thin sheets in between reality and dreams when my companion woke me.

'John! John-Johnnnnnn-'

I pretended to sleep- I was having a lovely dream….

When my companion kept on and on, I finally fully woke but I emphatically did not change my breathing. Yes, by now I, a good doctor, knows how to fake sleep through a finely-tuned ruse of measured breathes, random limb twitches, and the occasional snorting snore.

'Johnnnnn, Johnnnnn, Johnnnnn!'

I ignored him, before he sharply poked me in the ribs.

'Ouch!'

'Sorry!' Sherlock pouted, his messy dark hair forming a halo around his fine face- the full lips, the prominent cheekbones, the paleness, the straight nose and feline eyes…. 'Oh good, so you're awake.'

'Well, I am _now!_' I snapped, trying to control my temperature and rubbing my ribs. I ran a hand through my short, blond hair. 'Why did you wake me, Sherlock?'

'Well, John, look up at the sky and tell me what you see.'

I looked up, and I was mesmerised by what I saw. Shimmering starts, millions of them, were splodged like glitter in the sky. The moons majestic beauty was there, hanging silver in the English country sky; next to it (but still impossibly far away) there was a small octopus looking group of stars. A galaxy. Then, on the other side, was a small, blue-ish planet; Venus, if I wasn't mistaken.

It was the most beautiful thing my eyes ever did see.

I relayed this to the angelic looking detective beside me. He smiled and looked at me with those blue grey eyes of his.

'So, John,' he said, entwining our fingers and shifting so that he was facing me. 'What does that tell you?'

I pondered this for a moment, working it out, until…

'Um, astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I see that Saturn is in Leo, I think. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately ten past one. Uh, theologically, I can see that, if something so beautiful exists, God must've put it there.' I looked at him through my lashes at this point and he looked at me curiously before curling an arm around my chest. 'In turn, this tells me that God is all powerful and that we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. Why, what does it tell you Sherlock?'

He slapped his forehead with his other hand (the one that was thrown across my chest) and sighed. I shifted, and looked at the detective. He was frowning, but grinning at the same time.

'John, you moron, you utter utter fool…. It means some bugger has stolen our tent!'


End file.
